Chapter 131: The Hunted Skaði
What was the world of Norse like?
Snow and wind were the most common weather. People lived between ice and sea, and the heavens and earth always felt vast, boundless, and indifferent.
That was Rowe's first impression the moment he took that step.
The colossal machina god form immediately retracted most of its functions. "Stealth" protocols engaged, external signals severed, perception lines isolated, and every possible trace of presence buried under layers of concealment.
In an unfamiliar world, reconnaissance came first.
This time, he came for "life." Even if it was life born from death, caution was still a habit worth keeping. He could not afford to be careless.
He would not forget that Ereshkigal was also here in Norse.
The reason was still unclear, but he had to find her.
So, as he arrived, his eyes met a world swallowed by snow and wind. From afar, it looked like vast streams of light pouring down across the land. And in the distant heights, he could vaguely make out the massive trunk of a tree piercing heaven and earth, its shadow nearly covering the entire cosmos.
The trunk was pale and slender, like the long, powerful limb of some impossible giant.
Near its expanding tip, within exposed hollows, eerie blue "cubes" rotated like an ever shifting puzzle.
The World Tree.
In the Norse worldview, it was the central axis of the Nine Realms, the spine around which all worlds were divided and held in place.
Rowe wanted to enter one of the three worlds at the very bottom of the Nine Realms, beneath the World Tree's roots where the giants resided.
But while Tiamat could pinpoint a general region, she could not pinpoint the finer "boundaries" inside that region.
Being able to land him here at all was already impressive.
Rowe exhaled a breath of furnace heat. The falling snow scattered and melted into mist.
Gears within his body turned softly. His attention sank inward, reaching for Tartarus within him.
"Mother Goddess Tiamat?" he called.
No response.
Rowe paused, then let out a helpless, faintly amused breath.
The image from his internal sensor showed it clearly. In the abyss of rolling, boiling lava, the primordial Mother Goddess was leaning against a pillar of solidified magma. Her long hair flowed like water, framing a serene sleeping face.
It seemed the "comfort" of the environment had lulled her into sleep immediately.
For Tiamat, a primordial furnace reminiscent of the earliest era of star formation was the safest place imaginable.
"Good night," Rowe murmured.
He projected his human form inward, leaned down slightly, and covered Tiamat with a blanket woven from primordial stellar power.
She did not need it.
But it would make her more comfortable.
And he would need her help later.
Rowe's projection vanished.
"Mm…" Tiamat's eyelashes fluttered. She hugged the blanket tighter.
Outside, the colossal machina god form contracted and faded. In the world of pristine white, only a tiny human figure remained, absurdly small compared to what had existed a moment ago.
His linen robe billowed as snow struck it. Rowe patted the accumulating snow from his shoulders and looked ahead.
In the distance, faint fishing lights flickered.
Human traces were rare in this vastness.
"First, find signs of human habitation," Rowe thought, and stepped forward.
He used no magecraft. He displayed no divine miracle. He simply walked, one step after another, like an ordinary man.
Approaching the world as a mortal.
Feeling the world's difference as a mortal.
Awooo.
A wolf's howl rolled through the north wind like a horn call.
Hunters wearing animal skin coats, tall and sturdy, came charging across the snow on sleds pulled by hyenas. Bushes on both sides shook. Arrows burning with magical light tore through gaps in the branches and struck a running snow wolf cleanly.
The snow wolf wailed and collapsed. Blood and snow mixed instantly.
The hunter gripping his bow let out an excited roar. His beard, pale with snowflakes, trembled as he shouted.
"By the Allfather Odin! I will take first place in this hunting ritual for the Snow Mountain Goddess!"
Then his joy died in his throat.
The rugged middle aged hunter stared toward a thicket where footsteps approached.
With each step, a robe swayed. A figure drew nearer.
A strange, heavy stillness brewed in the hunter's chest, the kind that made the soul instinctively lower its head. His excitement vanished without leaving even a trace.
Have I encountered some powerful undead?
I have not heard of any great warrior dying here recently.
By Odin, I mean no offense.
The hunter opened his mouth, then saw the newcomer raise his head.
A young, handsome face.
Not the sort of handsomeness common among Norsemen. Clean, sharp, almost out of place in this land of ice.
The hunter swallowed his words and lowered his presence, trying to make himself smaller, trying not to offend.
The young man, Rowe, ignored him. He walked to the fallen wolf and crouched to observe.
The blood that seeped out was crystal clear. Faint specks of white crystal glittered within it.
The same whiteness that echoed the World Tree's color.
So it really is like this.
Rowe understood at once.
Imaginary Number Space was a dimension independent of the world, but an anchor for entering reality relied on the self's perception.
Rowe had fallen into Imaginary Number Space again at the dawn of the Fourth Age of Gods in Greece. Therefore, his departure from it could not be earlier than that point.
Which meant the age where gods and humans mingled freely should have long since passed. Greece only continued because of the special nature of its machina god essence.
And yet Norse still retained a strong sense of mystery.
The reason was likely the World Tree.
"The World Tree," Rowe murmured, withdrawing his hand from the wolf's blood as he stood. "A structure imitating the Star Hunter, used as the cornerstone to sustain the continuation of the Age of Gods."
Light flickered in his eyes. Information processed with cold precision.
Athena's blessing, still usable even on foreign soil, let him see more clearly than he should.
No wonder it felt familiar.
That pale trunk.
Those rotating blue cubes exposed in the hollows.
Was that not the shape of the Star Hunter that struck the surface ten thousand years ago?
The gods truly could not be underestimated.
The Star Hunter had pierced the foundation of the gods' existence, causing Mystery to leak away unceasingly. Yet facts proved the gods had their own methods.
Mesopotamia tried to recast faith between humans and gods through a "wedge" to preserve the Age of Gods. It failed only because they met Gilgamesh. Their understanding of faith had already been pushed to an extreme.
The Greek gods created tangible physical bodies they could rely on completely, then successfully housed divine forms within human vessels.
But compared to them, the method adopted here in Norse was even more direct.
They obtained part of the Star Hunter's remains and forged it into the World Tree.
Using the Star Hunter's nature, its ability to counter planetary civilizations, its endless devouring and expansion, they compensated for the diminishing Mystery on the surface.
The World Tree was the divine artifact sustaining the Norse Age of Gods to this day.
As long as the World Tree did not fall, the Norse gods could still traverse the present world through it, maintaining their rule.
And likewise, under the World Tree's influence, the gods and living beings of this land inevitably developed white crystals within their bodies.
Perhaps it should be called "Norse divinity."
Rowe closed his eyes. The information settled.
Under the World Tree, the gods of Norse might prove even more troublesome than those of Greece.
More confirmation was needed.
So.
"Is it true that the annual hunting ritual to worship the Snow Mountain Goddess is being held here today?" Rowe asked softly.
He opened his eyes and looked toward the hunter.
The man had been inching away while Rowe's eyes were closed. Now he froze, caught like prey in moonlight.
But Rowe's words were not directed at him.
They were directed at the shadow that had appeared at his side at some unknown moment.
"Snow Mountain Goddess," Rowe said, voice steady. "Skaði."
His gaze shifted slightly.
A spear flashed.
Clang.
Rowe's outstretched hand instantly completed a partial machina god transformation. His palm became steel, and he caught the sharp, dark purple spearhead forged from extraterrestrial metal.
The collision of magical vibration distorted the surrounding air. Wind and snow were blown apart and turned into mist.
The hunter scrambled away without looking back.
Rowe turned, finally facing the figure who had appeared.
A girl's form, with long flowing purple hair and a thorny crown. Dark purple pupils, beautiful and cold. A delicate face with crimson lips curved into a faint, effortless smile.
A long purple dress draped her. Black down rested on her shoulders. Her chest was exposed, fair and refined, her figure tightly shaped by the fabric. The hem hugged her hips. Her legs, wrapped in black stockings, looked plump and full of strength rather than fragility.
A goddess.
As Rowe had already confirmed, she was the cherished treasure of the gods beneath the World Tree. Odin regarded her as a daughter. The gods loved her.
Skaði, the goddess of the snowshoes.
Rowe knew of her. Even before his transmigration, he had known her name.
Though the Skaði he knew was not purely Skaði, nor was she the Skaði standing here now. The one in his memory was the mature goddess who, in a certain timeline, maintained the Norse region alone after Ragnarok.
Different, yet still sharing the same origin.
But the Skaði of this era should have been naive, innocent, closer to the image of a casting goddess than a front line fighter.
And yet.
At this moment, the Norse Skaði before him held a spear.
Rowe glanced at the spear tip still caught in his palm.
Skaði held a staff in one hand and a spear in the other.
Skaði, as a goddess, was a deity more skilled in spells. It was normal for her to be unaccustomed to close combat.
Unless she was not pure.
Rowe's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Skaði… Scáthach?"
Clang.
The spear trembled as he released it.
Rowe's thoughts tangled.
Is this before the divergence point of a Lostbelt?
Or a parallel world?
Skaði froze for only an instant. She stared at Rowe's hand, the flesh that had turned to steel, the partial machina god transformation, and her pretty face brightened with a playful curve of the lips.
"Hm? A dead man from the realm of death, and you possess such power?"
"But it's useless, you know."
She lifted the spear, almost proudly.
"The spear I wield is a replica of Gungnir, bestowed by the great god Odin. Though I am the Snow Goddess, I enter a mysterious magic mirror every day and learn many things from another 'me.' Because of that, Odin entrusted me with the duty of guiding the dead."
"The dead should return to the land of the dead. That is a rule set by the gods."
So that was why she appeared here.
But Rowe was not a mere dead man.
And he had no intention of being sent to Helheim.
Still, something about her words snagged at him.
Another "me."
Does she mean Scáthach, the one who shares an origin with her?
Scáthach is in Norse, and has even met Skaði?
Rowe let the thought settle, then replied casually, voice almost light.
"Do not worry. You will not hurt me. You will only send me to Helheim."
"And then you can exchange me for something, yes? The treasures accumulated in the underworld, for instance."
Rowe's gaze met hers.
"A dead soul with death aura as dense as mine is rare. I can fetch a good price from Hel, who is searching for undead warriors everywhere."
"Am I wrong?"
Skaði's expression stiffened.
"You… how did you know? No. I did not have such thoughts."
But she did.
The underworld was the resting place of the dead, and the place where all things settled after perishing. Like every pantheon, the underworld was where countless treasures accumulated.
She wanted to take Rowe hostage and trade him for treasure.
Preferably gemstones, to decorate her clothes and skirts.
She had only thought it.
She had not said it.
How did he know?
This man.
"I do not particularly enjoy being pointed at with a spear," Rowe said, tone calm. "But since you have no killing intent toward me, I will spare your life."
Skaði felt the spear loosen.
And Rowe vanished.
"Where did he go?" Skaði snapped, startled.
A gale struck her from behind, lifting her purple hair.
The goddess spun instantly. Her dark purple spear swept out, colliding with an incoming fist.
Clang.
The shockwave of magic distorted the air again.
Skaði retreated several steps, her chest and hips swaying with the motion, then in the same breath she thrust.
A thousand strikes in an instant, forming sparkling points of light.
Fast. Accurate. Ruthless.
Spearwork that had reached a divine realm.
Rowe raised his machina god transformed arm. He increased his force only slightly, then clamped the spear tip between two fingers.
And flicked.
The spear was repelled.
So strong.
Skaði's face grew serious.
And perhaps due to the influence of that shared origin, excitement rose within her like a fire she could not name.
"It seems that in your previous life, you truly were a seasoned warrior," Skaði said, gripping her spear. With a turn of her wrist, the spear tip rotated lightly. "Speaking of which, today is my Snow Mountain Hunting Ritual, the one I preside over as the Snow Mountain Goddess."
"Hunting a strong person is also good."
"The loser shall belong to Victory."
She sounded very confident.
"Indeed." Rowe nodded, smiling. "Then…"
He did not finish.
Wind swept across his face.
Skaði moved first.
She twisted her waist and thrust. The spear streaked like a meteor. Rowe slipped aside, and she immediately shifted her grip, swinging the shaft left and right in a cutting arc.
Rowe frowned, planted his foot, and leapt into the air.
The spear followed like a serpent. It turned mid flight and chased upward.
Most of Rowe's battles until now relied on power, authority, and strategy.
This agile, pure martial style was something he had rarely faced.
She could not harm him. Even if he stood still, her spear could not pierce his outer robe.
And yet Rowe found it interesting.
So he stomped down hard.
His foot landed directly on the spear, forcing it to bend and deform. As it snapped back, Rowe used the rebound, slamming into Skaði with the momentum she herself created.
Using her strength.
Striking her person.
Fast as lightning, and entirely driven by her own power.
Skaði's eyes widened. Instinct took over. She retracted her spear in an instant.
At the same time, her other hand swung her staff. Wind and snow flooded the sky, forming a blinding obstruction.
Magecraft and martial skill combined.
But Rowe only advanced.
One hand swept the snowstorm aside. He moved several steps forward like he had crossed space itself.
Then he landed a hand on Skaði's neck and pressed her into the snow.
"I win," Rowe said.
"By your own words, you are my spoils of war now."
Rowe looked down at her, voice calm, almost amused.
"Snow Mountain Goddess, Skaði."
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